


Spiralis

by east_wind



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Other, Polyamory, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11269299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/east_wind/pseuds/east_wind
Summary: John Laurens commissions an independent artist for an anniversary present, and the rest is history.





	Spiralis

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, this is a permanently abandoned WIP. I started it in a blaze of inspiration in October 2015, and then promptly got swept out of my Hamilton phase and into something else, who knows what. It's still been hanging around in the back of my mind, though, because I like a lot of what I did with it, so I decided to drop it here on the off chance that it'll bring someone a bit of the joy that it brought me all those months ago. Give it a read if you're interested, and check the end notes for a brief summary of the rest of the plot (as best as I can recall it). Cheers.

À leur meilleur, proclaimed the business card, in large gold script set against deep purple. Below that, in smaller, plainer text it read at their best, portraits. A website was listed, and a phone number, and nothing else. Laurens picked it up off the counter of the little corner grocery when he took his change and slid it into his wallet. It was promptly forgotten about, in the whirlwind of moving house and the thousand other little daily responsibilities. When he found it four weeks later, after just narrowly saving his wallet from going through the wash- how exactly he managed to let that happen was unclear- Laurens could not remember for a moment where the card came from or why he had picked it up. He soon recalled the grocery store, and his intent to find out what and who the card was advertising for, and resolved to look at the website as soon as possible. He found a spare moment that evening, with Hamilton out of the house for a late class, dinner already eaten, and the dishwasher and washing machine humming in the background.  


Laurens discovered, after a few minutes, that “À leur meilleur” was the name of the business, and it was indeed a portrait shop, with a charming premise. Clients, apparently, sent the owner and sole employee a picture of a loved one at their most beautiful, and he would reproduce it as a traditional-style painting. Scrolling through the gallery, Laurens had to admit that he liked the idea, and his anniversary was fast approaching. If he could find the right picture, find the money- he scrolled rapidly through a few more lines of information- find the time to meet with the artist, this Lafayette, it would be something special, something meaningful he could do for Alexander.  


He spent the next few days attempting to decide on what photo to send in. While looking through the gallery, his favorite paintings had without fail been not those of someone posing, or someone dressed up intentionally, but of the unscripted moments, where the subject was watching something or someone just out of frame and laughing, or had been captured in the middle of running or dancing. The portraits of these moments seemed almost to glow, and Laurens was certain that Lafayette, whoever he was, loved to work on them best. Laurens was determined to find the perfect picture of Alex, something that would capture what he saw when Alex came in the door after classes, what Laurens saw whenever he looked at him. The pictures on his phone, though, were all blurry, or had been taken in moments which were special, but didn’t lend themselves to being adapted into a portrait. Finally, Laurens decided that he would have to take new pictures, with this goal in mind. The decision raised the question of how he would manage to capture a portrait-worthy moment without letting Alex know that the photo was anything more than their normal casual picture-taking, but before he could mull it over for an answer, Alex was home from his class.  


“Honey, I’m home,” he called, voice tinged with laughter. Laurens basked silently in the familiarity of it, one of their oldest and fondest jokes. He got up to meet Alex, kissed him hello and relieved him of his coat.  


“How was your day, love?”  


He made a noncommittal noise. “Not bad, I suppose… We spent far too much time reviewing old cases, and annotating them for the strategies of the winning lawyer, which I could probably do in my sleep. It could have been worse. What was dinner?”  


“There’s leftover curry in the fridge, you can have it if you want. And I think we have some eggs left? I’ll have to go to the store tomorrow, anyway, so you’re welcome to them.”  


“I think I’ll have eggs, use up the end of the bread, too. Want me to make any for you?”  


“I’m alright, I ate earlier. Thanks, though, I appreciate it.” Laurens couldn’t keep the fond smile off his lips, as he sat perched on the countertop swapping bits of news with Alex. Over and over he saw little moments which might have made a worthy portrait, when the last of the sunlight caught the flecks of gold in Alex’s eyes, or when he laughed at some remark Laurens had made.  
  


Lafayette dragged himself out of bed, muttering inarticulately at the alarm. Bleary-eyed, he made his way to the kitchen to start the daily struggle of making coffee. Later in the morning when he was more than half-conscious, he could place a name on the coffee paradox, but the question of how one was meant to navigate the coffee-making process without the benefit of caffeine was beyond him at the tender hour of five thirty.  


In the time it took to shower, he woke up more completely, and upon returning to the kitchen was greeted by the crushing realization that he had forgotten to actually turn the coffee maker on. This happened more often than he cared to admit, and he chalked the misfortune up to the coffee paradox and resignedly got it started. He was loath to waste time hanging about, but it was better than getting up for coffee once he’d gotten started painting, so he brought in the newspaper and checked his email to pass the time. He had one request for a meeting about a new commission, three messages from different tiny art shows, and one monthly newsletter from the gallery. He sent his standard response to the commissioner, taking note of the address- a small restaurant nearby- and the commissioner’s name- John Laurens. As always, he marked the date of the meeting on his ever-present calendar, and was at last able to pour a cup of coffee and set to work.  
  


Laurens was profoundly relieved when he discovered, upon waking up, that it was a Friday. Fridays meant no work, a full day free to run errands and take care of household chores- and, today, to meet with Lafayette. He spent the morning shaking the last of the general winter debris out of the apartment and carrying various baskets of laundry to and from the laundromat on the ground floor. It was pleasant work, and satisfying, but all the same he was happy to take a break to walk in the pale spring sunlight to the grocer. With the shopping finished, Laurens had just enough time to drop the groceries at home before he had to leave to meet Lafayette. The restaurant was not the closest, but to wait for a bus would almost certainly take more time than walking, so he put on a jacket just in case it grew too cold, and set off. On the way, he revisited the À leur meilleur website, paying close attention to the headshot of Lafayette so that he would recognize the man if he was already in the restaurant. When he arrived, however, Laurens saw no one who bore even the slightest resemblance to the photo. Reassured by the fact that he had managed to arrive seven minutes early, he ordered a sandwich and a coffee, and sat at a table in the open, making it clear that he was awaiting someone. Someone had abandoned one page of a newspaper under the chair, so with nothing better to do, Laurens picked it up. He read the continued second half of an article reviewing a recent concert, which made very little sense without the context of what band was actually playing, and became so absorbed in the advice column that he did not notice Lafayette until he sat down at the table.  


“John Laurens?”  


“That’s me, yes,” Laurens said, startled. He set the newspaper aside and took a quick sip of his now only lukewarm coffee to hide the fact that he had been deeply wrapped up in someone’s query about how to handle estranged cousins who had the same birthday. “Mr. Lafayette?”  


He laughed, one little hah, at some joke which was clearly beyond Laurens’ knowledge. “Just Lafayette will do,” he said, shrugging out of his coat. He sat in what almost counted as a sprawl, gracefully taking up a fair amount of space without looking any less intent. Laurens took in for a moment the fact that he was wearing jeans and- whoops- one of Alex’s sweatshirts, and Lafayette was very nearly dressed up, his hair pulled back neatly. Oh, well, Laurens thought, too late for it now, and it was one of likely only two times they would meet face-to-face, so he put the matter aside.  


The matter of making the commission and talking over with Lafayette the details of the scene Laurens wanted him to capture, above and beyond merely the photograph- what he and Alex had been talking about, whether or not it had been a good day, how he would describe Alex if he had to fit it in one sentence- took no more than fifteen minutes. Lafayette, though, didn’t seem particularly eager to leave. “Monsieur Laurens, tell me about how you met your Alexander.”  


Laurens couldn’t resist, and he had nowhere to be until five. “We met close to Christmas, a little more than two years ago, at a mutual acquaintance’s party. I arrived somewhat late, and the host met me at the door in a dither because one of the guests couldn’t stop arguing with everyone, and so there I was dragging this stranger outside and down the street so that everyone would settle down, and that was how I met Alex.” Lafayette’s laughter was incongruous with his carefully put-together casual professionalism, and Laurens could have sworn heads turned instinctively to see what joke they were missing out on. He certainly wanted to hear it again, and he found himself telling the rest of the story, the bit typically reserved for his friends. “He was totally cool about it, too, as soon as we got outside, it was like he hadn’t just been in some guy’s face about the wage gap. He turned to me and shook my hand and we sat on a park bench and talked for hours. He was captivating to listen to, even before I really knew him- he’ll talk for hours and then it’ll shut off suddenly and he can draw your whole life story out and pay absolute attention the entire time.” Laurens was unabashedly grinning, now, in recollection. “His ride finally came out looking for him, but we kept meeting up after that, and it was only about five months before we were dating. God, it’s been nearly two years since then, it seems like so much less. Alex is… He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met before.” He trailed off abruptly, distracted by Lafayette’s sudden distraction- he had twisted around to look out the window and upon discovering that it had begun to rain, swore viciously in French.  


Before Laurens could ask, Lafayette was up and tugging on his coat. “In a supreme show of-” he briskly collected the trash off the table- “idiocy,-” he dumped it in the bin by the door and strode out onto the sidewalk, Laurens following behind- “I left my miserable front window open for that bastard cat!” He looked both ways and hastened across the street, glaring at the clouds.  


“Wait!” Laurens hollered after him, above the sundry sounds of a city undergoing its first spring deluge of the season. “Let me call you a cab! You can’t walk, you’ll be soaked!”  


“You are very generous, Monsieur, and foolish if you believe you could make a taxi appear soon enough to save my poor home!”  


Laurens felt foolish, though mostly it was because he was having an argument with a near-stranger across two lanes of traffic. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, and then, “Walk if you must, then, but when you’re miserable and soggy, remember my offer!”  


Lafayette gave him the finger.  


“It was a pleasure meeting you!” Laurens caught a flash of Lafayette’s grin before he disappeared behind a parked car. That evening, when he and Alex came home from dinner, Laurens was hardly surprised, upon glancing at his phone, to find a text from an unknown number.  


[2027250198]: the bastard cat never left the couch  


: damn him  


Also attached was a picture of what Laurens presumed was Lafayette’s kitchen floor, covered in soggy towels. Alex reemerged from the bedroom, then, already yawning. He had somehow managed to change into pajamas in the minute and a half since they had walked in the door, and was wasting no time in settling into his favorite corner of the couch. It was another of their traditions- dinner out on Friday nights, and then however many episodes of their current show they could get through before falling asleep.  


Laurens left his phone on the counter and joined Alex, dragging the blanket up from the foot of the couch and restarting the episode of Downton Abbey they’d left off on last week. Downton had started out as Alex’s show, and Laurens had made fun of him relentlessly for it- until the end of the first season, and then he was hooked. Of late, they had not been making much progress because one or both might fall asleep during the evening’s first episode, and tradition dictated that the Friday night show only be watched on Friday nights. They were on their third attempt at the current episode, but neither really minded- it was a good opportunity to tune out the now-familiar exposition and catch up with each other.  


“How were classes today?” Laurens shifted around to face Alex.  


“Nothing special, too many people are ramping up for the bar in May for us to talk about anything other than review. I could have stared at the wall for four hours and learned as much. They’ll hopefully be out of the way soon so that the rest of us can get on with things.” He shook his head slightly, exasperated, but pushed it aside. “How about you? Did you suck the marrow out of life on your day off?”  


Laurens laughed. “I sucked the marrow out of the laundromat, at least. And I met a friend- I think- while I was at the store.” The deception was regrettable, but Laurens couldn’t disclose why he’d been meeting Lafayette, and he knew Alex had to meet him.  


“Oh? You think you met a friend?”  


“We parted on somewhat uncertain terms, but he was intriguing, to say the least,” Laurens said, and Alex hummed in agreement, already dozing to the sounds of the Crawley family’s drama. Laurens tucked his feet more securely under the edge of the blanket, and felt himself falling asleep as well.  
  


Hamilton woke later than he’d expected- the sun was already painting the room a hazy gold, and the bed was empty, the house silent. He looked to the right, at Laurens’ pillow, and was unsurprised to find a note there. Alex- Headed to the studio around 7:30, the note read, in Laurens’ neat, spiky handwriting. Left some coffee for you. Come by around lunchtime? All my love- J.L.  


After coffee and breakfast and doing the dishes, and finishing one paper for History of Law and starting another for Modern Civil Law, Hamilton made two sandwiches and packed them up along with the end of a sleeve of crackers and the last of the brie that was in the fridge, and left for the studio. On the way, he stopped in at the corner grocery and bought two packages of cookies, oatmeal for Laurens and peanut butter for himself.  


He made it to the studio in time to see the last minutes of morning rehearsals. Laurens stood at the front of the room, watching the fifteen dancers go through the piece one last time before lunch. He waved to Hamilton when the number ended, but quickly returned his attention to two students. He demonstrated the movements for them, and made sure they understood what they needed to work on- Hamilton couldn’t tell the difference between what they did and what Laurens did, but he was sure there was some subtle but important nuance he was missing- before moving towards the doorway.  


Laurens leaned down to kiss him. “Hello, love, I missed you this morning. I’m glad you got good sleep, though-” he broke off. “Did you bring me oatmeal cookies? You are the best, what would I do without you?” He sat down on the floor and gleefully took a few cookies. Hamilton joined him, happy in Laurens’ happiness. He loved visiting the studio, watching Laurens in his element, whether he was teaching or practicing. Laurens was a dancer all the time, whether he was cleaning the kitchen or going on a walk, but the studio was where all his intensity manifested, beautiful and exhilarating. He was brought out of his thoughts when he realized that Laurens was talking to him.  


“Sorry, what? I was thinking.”  


“You, Alexander Hamilton? Lost in thought? I never would have guessed.” Hamilton raised one eyebrow at him, and then ruined it by laughing. “I asked if there was anything you wanted to do this evening, I think it’s the last Saturday we have free for a little while.”  


“We haven’t been to the museums in a few months- will you be up for the Gallery after a day of dance?”  


Laurens scoffed in mock conceit. “You underestimate my power, of course I’ll be up for it. Dinner out or dinner in?”  


“Dinner in, it’ll be quicker.”  


Laurens checked the clock. “Break ends in a minute, I’ll have to go.” He hopped back to his feet, and Hamilton kissed him goodbye.  


“See you at home, dearest!”  


Laurens waved over his shoulder. “Thanks for lunch!”  


He lingered for a moment to see part of the lesson, watching Laurens demonstrate the next series of steps, lithe and graceful.  


Hamilton left in a good mood, as he often did. He stopped back by the grocery store on his way home to pick up things for dinner, and ate the rest of his lunch as he walked, and a few of Laurens’ oatmeal cookies. When he arrived home, he had just enough time to finish the morning’s draft of the Modern Civil Law essay and take a nap before starting dinner. By the time Laurens came home, Hamilton was standing at the stove, stirring the soup with one hand and holding a book with the other. Laurens headed for the shower almost immediately, while Hamilton sliced some bread and served the soup- sweet potato, his favorite. He was just getting out the rest of the cheese and crackers from lunch when a classmate emailed him in desperate need of assistance on the History of Law essay.  
  


When Laurens came into the kitchen, hair still damp, he was unsurprised to see Hamilton multitasking, dusting the soup with cinnamon and furiously scrolling through some document on his phone. The cinnamon canister was veering dangerously close to the edge of the counter, but Laurens caught Hamilton’s wrist gently and relieved him of it. “What are you reading, love?”  


“A classmate’s paper for History of Law- how did these people make it through college? You don’t start an essay with your thesis, it’s not how it’s done!”  


“We can’t all be like you, Alex, you forget that most of the world is populated by us mere mortals,” Laurens said, voice light with teasing.  


“Don’t sell yourself short, you’re brilliant in the studio, not everyone can dance like that.”  


“You flatter me endlessly,” he said, dryly. “Thank you for making dinner, I appreciate it.”  


“It was my pleasure,” Hamilton said, warmth in his voice. He glanced at the clock. “The gallery closes at eleven, but still, let’s not dally.”  
He and Laurens made idle talk over dinner, filling each other in on stories from the past week. Laurens had fallen in love by listening to Hamilton, and his affinity towards his voice hadn’t lessened with time. It was best like this, soft and casual, all his intensity and none of the anxious rush of work and conflict, and Laurens let him talk most of the time, through dinner and on the bus. He’d learned a long time ago that Hamilton could keep quiet, could keep his hopes and fears unspoken, but they would fester in him.  


Laurens remembered vividly their first days living together, as Hamilton was graduating and applying to law schools all at once, how he would come home frayed and if Laurens let him talk for long enough, he could watch the tension drain out of his shoulders and the lines ease from his face.  


Tonight, though, they both talked lightly, skipping from subject to subject, music and books and plans for the summer. Laurens told Hamilton more about Lafayette, and in return Hamilton regaled him with stories about his classmates, and it seemed only moments before they got off the bus and walked the short distance to the gallery.  


They started in the East building, deeming it too cold to visit the sculpture garden. As always, it was enjoyable, but both Laurens and Hamilton knew that they really only visited the East wing as a formality. Both loved the old building best, with its grim portraits and jeweled landscapes. Since his first visit as a child, come down from Maine with his mother as a tourist, Laurens had been fond of the West wing. The moulded trim in the gallery rooms had, though it was the smallest detail, made a great impression upon him, almost more so than the ostentatious pillars and fountains. At the time, the trim had led him to believe that the whole building was someone’s house- he wasn’t sure why, exactly, he’d thought that, as all other evidence pointed to the contrary, but the minds of children worked in mysterious ways- and he’d been profoundly jealous of the imagined owner who got to live with all the paintings. Laurens was brought out of his reverie by Hamilton’s voice as they slid through the connecting tunnel.  


“My mother always loved this tunnel,” he said, ruminatively. “We used to ride back and forth maybe eight times in a row, and then if it wasn’t too crowded, we’d run as fast as we could next to the conveyor belt. She’d laugh the whole time, no matter how people stared. I remember-” He broke off, and turned away from the rows of lights, but not before Laurens caught a glimpse of them reflected too brightly in his eyes. His heart panged with sympathy, and he took Hamilton’s hand in his own, squeezing gently.  


The tunnel ended abruptly before the gesture did, and Laurens swore under his breath as his toes stubbed against the ground, mindful of the children that might be around even as he was saved from a nasty fall by Hamilton’s hand, which was still holding his. Laurens was glad that his near-miss had caused some good- Hamilton had laughter in his eyes as he hauled him back onto stable footing. It wasn’t real happiness, but it was enough to propel them both into the West wing. As they moved through the gallery, neither mentioned any memories the building brought to the surface, although Laurens found that Hamilton lingered overlong in the room housing the Voyage of Life series, and he himself paused in the garden court for an extra moment, staring into the still basin of the fountain and recalling distinctly the sound of violins and his parents’ angry whispers. They’d left early, that time, and- Laurens pushed aside the memory and caught up to Hamilton. Hand in hand, they meandered through the last few rooms, making conversation and studiously avoiding anything that might ruin the still-enjoyable night. At last, reluctantly, they came back around the circle to the cafe and the tunnel.  


“Let’s stay and get coffee,” Laurens suggested, “unless you’re eager to go home?”  


“I’d love to, you know I’ve always hated leaving here,” Hamilton said, and so they sat at the table closest to the windows and drank expensive and only-decent museum coffee, and then bought gelato, too, just because they could. They left back through the East building, and stepped out into an unexpected rainstorm. It was not all that cold, but the shock of early-April rain in contrast to the warmth of the gallery was unpleasant. Exchanging almost identical looks of dismay, Laurens and Hamilton scurried back into the entryway, and stood there shivering until the bus came.  


The bus was nearly empty, the hour and the weather deterring tourists and locals alike from venturing out. The bus driver had the radio on quietly, playing music that Laurens didn’t recognize, but it sounded old and comfortable and, in unknown ways, familiar. It provided the perfect backdrop to the close of the evening. Laurens followed the flow of the songs distantly, watching watery reflections of streetlamps slide past the windows. Hamilton was unusually quiet, which worried Laurens for the barest moment, until he around looked to see that he had fallen asleep. Fondly, Laurens wrapped an arm around Hamilton’s shoulders, and tugged him gently over so that he rested against Laurens’ own shoulder instead of awkwardly against the headrest of the bus seat.  


Hamilton woke himself up exactly one stop before theirs, with uncannily perfect timing. He stayed where he was, though, leaned against Laurens, and they watched streetlights together until the bus stopped on their street.  
  


Lafayette sat on the fire escape, catching the late afternoon sunlight and contemplating. The fat grey cat wandered out to join him, and it settled onto his lap and promptly fell asleep. He scratched idly behind its ears and where its eyebrows would be, if cats had eyebrows, and it purred in its sleep gratifyingly. He was happy to have the company of the cat. The apartment, though not large, always seemed to feel dauntingly empty whenever Lafayette was in between paintings. He’d delivered one that morning during his other errands, dropped it off at the post office carefully wrapped and boxed as protection from the brutalities of the mail system, and then gone on his way. The mailings were the worst. At the very least, if he dropped the painting off in person, Lafayette could receive the other half of the emotional exchange. Mail, though, was cold and distant in addition to stressful, and a mailing trip in the morning almost certainly soured the rest of the day. He’d gone to the library and the tiny one-room art supply store after the post office, and drifted in mounting misery through both. Upon arriving home, he had almost immediately escaped to the fire stairs, finding their rusty, creaking platform more comfortable than the empty apartment, and now he sat dismally planning the start of the next portrait. He found that starting paintings, creating something out of the nothingness of a blank canvas, was still the hardest part of the process. It was not a step he looked forward to. No matter how many times he overcame the moment, the next time was just as bad.  


He shook his hair out of his face with a sharp flick, and gently shifted the cat off of his lap. It made a small noise of protest, but almost before it had finished stretching was asleep again. Lafayette petted it fondly, and, with a great force of will, stood up and went inside to work. He spent a good amount of time on laying out brushes and considering colors, and moving the easel to get the best light, and reviewing the photograph of M. Laurens’ Alex. None of these tasks required the level of care which Lafayette spent on them now, but from years of experience he had learned that as long as he at least felt that he was achieving things, he would be able to keep working. In the crucial moment of putting paint to canvas, though, he could not proceed. Thoroughly frustrated, he left the supplies laying on the table, snatched up his phone and keys, and fled onto the sidewalk, heading North arbitrarily.  


Within five minutes, he experienced a deep regret that he had, in his haste, neglected to pick up a coat. April was drawing to a close, the days growing longer with every passing week, and yet the cold clung to the city, staying just close enough that it was impossible to forget entirely. Exasperated, Lafayette picked the nearest cafe and got in line immediately, seeking anything hot and caffeinated.  


Clutching a large cup of tea in cold fingers, Lafayette folded himself into an armchair across the table from a man entirely hidden by a newspaper. He sipped his tea carefully, and read the back of the newspaper for a while, and then found himself staring at nothing, through the air to the wall, and beyond. Thus distracted, it was a great shock when the man folded his newspaper and revealed himself to be John Laurens.  


“Lafayette! I didn’t see you there,” he said, as surprised as Lafayette himself was.  


“Your paper concealed you, I did not notice you either. What brings you here today, in this weather?”  


“I could ask you the same, frankly, but anyways- Alex is attending an extra seminar at the theater, so I’m waiting for him here.” He looked at his watch. “He should be here soon, perhaps you’ll be able to meet him?”  


“I have nowhere else to be,” Lafayette said, and recounted the tale of his day, up through forgetting his coat and seeking refuge in the cafe. Laurens was laughing, part in amusement and part in sympathy, by the end of it, and it eased Lafayette’s lingering guilt about neglecting the new painting.  


“Alex gets like that, too, sometimes, when he’s got something major to write. He’ll get in the cycle where he can’t be perfect from the outset and so he feels like a failure, and then it keeps him from working, and then he feels like a failure for not working, and on ad nauseum. Sleep helps.”  


“That damnable cycle is too familiar to me, although I flee instead of sleep. Perhaps both together, in moderation, would be the best cure? Maybe there isn’t a cure, we’re all simply doomed.”  


“You could look at it that way, if you wanted to be a gloomy sod,” Laurens said, wryly, “or you could think about the fact that Alex finishes the assignment every time, and you finish the painting every time. You creators, you can never have faith.”  


Lafayette suddenly remembered that he had said goodbye to Laurens with a rather rude gesture after their first meeting. In retrospect, he was slightly embarrassed, but Laurens hadn’t seemed bothered by it then, and he was treating Lafayette no differently now. With an effort, he convinced himself not to worry overmuch about the incident. He returned his attention to the conversation hurriedly, just fast enough to hide his distraction. “And am I to suppose you create nothing? Surely you don’t feel that you’re on top of everything all the time?” He paused, struck by a realization. “What do you do, by the way? You didn’t mention it last time.”  


Laurens skipped neatly over Lafayette’s teasing query, much to his disappointment. “I’m a dance instructor, actually, I teach for a local company.”  


“Ah! So you are an artist of sorts as well! Surely, then, you have experienced your- what did you call it? Maker’s faithlessness?”  


“You would assume wrong,” he said, smirking in a mockery of braggadocio, “I’ve yet to give myself a cause to have doubt.”  


“Oh, yes, forgive me, I forgot that I was in the presence of the infallible Monsieur Laurens,” Lafayette said, sarcasm laid on thick, and he made a mock bow over the table.  


Laurens’ real laughter was endearingly genuine, in counterpoint to his typical teasing, and it caught Lafayette by surprise. He knew immediately that he simply had to draw it out again. Before the conversation could begin anew, however, a man came through the door, clearly looking for someone. Ah, Lafayette thought, watching how Laurens looked around almost instinctively to find him, this must be Alex. He returned to his tea, barely warm now, while they greeted each other.  


“Alex,” Laurens said, “this is Lafayette, the friend I was telling you about.”  


Alex reached across the table to shake Lafayette’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you! Laurens told me all about you, I was hoping I’d get the chance soon.”  


“I’d better be on my best behavior, then, lest I disappoint your expectations! I am glad to have met you, as well. I’ve heard much about you, in the short time since making Monsieur Laurens’ acquaintance.”  


Alexander pulled out the chair next to Laurens and sat down, depositing his bag on the ground. Almost simultaneously, Lafayette stood up and picked up his tea. Both Alex and Laurens looked surprised. “You’re not leaving already, are you?” Alex asked, dismayed.  


“Oh! No, my apologies, I’m merely disposing of my garbage as an excuse to consider buying a pastry. Can I interest either of you in anything?” The struggle between good manners and the desire for a snack wrote itself across both of their faces, the two wearing very similar expressions. Amused, Lafayette recycled his cup and ordered three chocolate croissants. He didn’t know what pastries his new friends preferred, but he was betting on the universal belovedness of chocolate croissants. A minute later, he delivered the three warm pastries to the table, and waved off the resulting protests of, “Oh, you needn’t have!”  


Lafayette sat, content to eat his croissant and listen to Alexander and Laurens catch up with each other. He took advantage of the time to observe Alex: how he talked with his hands, told his stories with a writer’s practiced turn of phrase, concisely detailed- but liable to run off onto tangents-, and especially how he and Laurens both, even while absorbed in a conversation which Lafayette knew barely enough about to follow along, turned to include him.  


Watching Alex talk, he saw with sudden clarity the painting which he would produce for Laurens’ commission. He took care to commit to memory the inspiration, already eager for the next morning’s work time. In a turn of events which he had not at all anticipated upon fleeing the house, his walk had solved the artist’s block all the same.  


“-, right, Lafayette?”  


“What?”  


Hamilton’s laugh was soft and understated, and not unkind. “Where have you been?”  


“I swear, I was here until a moment ago. What’d I miss?”  


“Laurens was telling me the other day that you were an artist, I was going to ask you about that.”  


“He had it right, what would you care to know?” Lafayette shot a surreptitious look at Laurens- the more Alex knew about Lafayette’s business, the more he might suspect the surprise, or come visit the studio, or any number of things. Laurens seemed unconcerned, though, so Lafayette put it aside. It wasn’t his surprise, really, anyways- although this was the first time in his career that he’d become friends with both the customer and the customer’s loved one before the painting was finished, and he had to admit, he was already sorry he wouldn’t be there to see Alex’s reaction when he saw it.  


“Where did you go to school? Did you go to school specifically for art, or did you study something else first? When did you know you had a future as an artist?” He broke off his rapid stream of questions rather sheepishly. “Sorry, that was a lot. You don’t have to answer all of them if you don’t want to,” he assured Lafayette, hurriedly.  


Lafayette shushed him gently before he plunged further into a rambling apology. “On the contrary, you’ll be sorry you gave me an excuse to talk about my work. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you out of here by dark!” Mischief colored his voice, and both Alexander and Laurens leaned forward in anticipation. He told them about college, how he was two credits away from completing a major in economics when he attended a wine and painting event sponsored by the school and realized that painting could be more than a hobby. He went back, then, and described very briefly how he would paint gifts for his family as a kid, and enter artwork in the county fair. Until the campus activity, he hadn’t made the connection between art as a child’s hobby and art as an adult’s profession. He ended up, much to his parents’ disapproval, taking another senior year so that he could major in fine arts.  


Lafayette ended the story there, and, not wishing to incite more questions about his current business, put Alexander on the receiving end. “And what about you, Monsieur Hamilton? Now you must share your college memories with me.”  


“Careful what you ask for,” Laurens warned, amused, “he really might keep you here all evening.”  


“Laurens! I will not, don’t slander me to new friends. Lafayette, I promise, I’ll keep it brief!”  


“I’m inclined to believe you, and even if you do talk all night, I’ve got no other obligations,” Lafayette said, and leaned back in his chair.  


Alex eagerly began describing his years at Princeton- Oh, thought Lafayette, yes, of course you went to Princeton. His story wound its way throughout his three years- Of course you graduated from Princeton in three years- often jumping from a third-year story to one from Freshman orientation, for context, and then from there onto another memory, and at last back to the third year. It was undeniably entertaining, although Lafayette discovered that Laurens’ warning had not been entirely in jest.  


He marveled, as he listened, that this man, whom he had practically met only minutes before, was sitting before him revealing his deepest college embarrassments and greatest triumphs, as if they were the closest of friends. He began to understand more completely Laurens’ story about meeting Alex. He was a vivid person, intense and captivating and- a client’s loved one. A portrait-to-be, and no more. Determined not to pay attention to the pang of sudden emotion this realization prompted, Lafayette brought his attention back fully to Alex’s story, which appeared to be wrapping up, as he was now rapidly recounting the events of moving out of his dorm for the last time.  


“-and we were trying to get the damned bookcase taken apart, but we’d lost the screwdriver at some point and no one could find anything else that would work- I think Eliza finally called maintenance, bless her- and by the time we’d finished fighting with it, the car was full, so we left it with some freshmen,” he said, his face lit with amusement at the memory. “I guess that’s really the last thing that we did… See, Laurens? I didn’t drag it out forever!”  


Laurens looked at his watch. “Dearest, it’s six o’clock,” he said mildly.  


“Oh, ah, well. Lafayette, I’m sorry-”  


“Don’t be, I assure you, your yarn was much more pleasurable than walking home and doing- nothing, probably. I always prefer company.” His reassurance seemed to be effective, Alex brightened again.  


Lafayette stood again, stretching his legs, and left for the bathroom. Upon his return, he found Alex and Laurens both donning their coats and gloves. Alex turned to face him. “We were going to go over to the Fifth Street bar, sometimes we go on Sundays- would you be interested in coming along? You don’t have to, of course! I just thought I might ask.”  


It took barely a second of contemplation for Lafayette to decide that, yes, he absolutely wanted to go to the Fifth Street bar. “I would like that very much,” he said, and the three of them left together- back into the cold, which had certainly not eased with the setting of the sun.  


“Are you cold?” Laurens asked. “You were saying you left your coat at home. Would you rather take the bus?”  


“I will live,” Lafayette said, although his assurance was undermined by a violent shiver. He persevered, however, setting a brisk pace and keeping his hands jammed firmly into his pockets. It was only a six block walk, and it was well above freezing.  


All the same, his teeth were chattering by the time they got into the bar, which was remarkably crowded for half-past six on a Sunday night. He ordered a Hot Toddy, because although he hated them on principle- what kind of cocktail was served warm?- he was prepared to sacrifice scruples for warmth. Alex got a daiquiri, which was clearly connected to some old joke, because before he took a sip, he and Laurens waggled their eyebrows at each other and dissolved into laughter. Laurens eschewed the cocktail bar for a beer, but insisted that he would pay the tab when they were done no matter what anyone ordered, and refused to heed Lafayette’s protests.  


The night passed quickly, in a warm haze of laughter and storytelling. Lafayette heard more from, and about, Laurens than he had at the cafe, and found that, in his own way, he was as magnetic as Alexander. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but it felt as if the activity in the bar was centered around wherever the three of them happened to be standing, as if the strangers were being drawn in around his new friends’ energy as well.  


As it was a Sunday, and both Alex and Laurens had to get up the next morning, they stayed for only a few drinks. When they left, Lafayette went, too, having no other reason to stay. Laurens insisted that he take the bus home, rather than walk all the way without a coat, and so they parted ways at the bus stop, with cell phone numbers swapped all around.  


As he sat on the bus, not quite drunk but certainly not sober, Lafayette was struck suddenly by a wave of melancholy. He realized how long it had been since he’d gone out and met new people. It wasn’t that he was suffering a lack of social interactions- he visited Hercules Mulligan quite frequently-, he had simply fallen into a routine of working, running errands, and going to the same little haunts with Mulligan, and without noticing, he’d become profoundly lonely. The thought of returning to his empty apartment deepened his gloom, and for perhaps the first time ever, he found himself hoping fervently that the cat would be in its favorite spot on the couch when he came home.  


He called to the cat when he let himself in, and was relieved when it came trotting into the kitchen to see him. He petted it absently, and dutifully went through the motions of getting ready for bed. With an enormous force of willpower, he managed to convince himself to shake off the sadness which had come upon him after leaving the bar. He managed this with only partial success, as although he could convince himself that saying a temporary goodbye to some new friends was no reason to be this upset, he could not deny that he was lonely.  


The cat joined him on the couch, and settled itself into a pleasantly warm lump on his chest when he went to sleep. It was no substitute for human company, but he was appreciative all the same.  
  


Hamilton had an early class Monday morning, so it was his turn to slide silently out of bed and leave a note on the kitchen counter before leaving. The bus was crowded with the morning commuters, as usual, but despite the density of passengers it was very quiet. The businesspeople clutched coffee cups or newspapers or both, and sat or stood in silence with their briefcases, reading or sleeping or listening to music. It was both serene and surreal, and often his least favorite part of the morning. It was time which was idle, but not pleasurably so, and it made him acutely conscious of the time he was wasting. He was relieved when the bus halted outside the lecture hall, although his relief was short-lived. His Monday morning class, Contracts Law, was, in his opinion, both boring and impractical. The hall was mostly empty when he trudged inside, which meant that he could at least endure the lecture from the back of the room.  


The professor, who Hamilton had not spoken to since the first day of the semester, started class ten minutes later. Despite his best efforts, Hamilton felt his attention slipping. His notes switched suddenly from “Terms relating to patent law in the sciences” to “Things I’d rather do on Monday”- a list which included, among other things, “Sweep the stairwells in Metro Center” and “Sleep in”. He doodled seven different versions of a pirate ship, and then mulled over his impressions of Lafayette from the night before. He’d found Lafayette fascinating, the way he dressed like a pauper and sat like a prince, how he’d talked about his past without once mentioning concrete details about his present. Hamilton was intrigued. He was glad Laurens liked Lafayette as well, as it would make getting to know the man much easier.  


Following that train of thought, he pulled out his phone to see if Laurens had texted him good morning. He had, of course- neither ever missed a greeting, except during emergencies.  


Laurens: Morning, love, saw your note 

: I’m at the studio till 4 i think, want me to get dinner on my way home? 

A. Ham: Good morning, dear! 

A. Ham: Lecture lets out in 27 minutes, meeting with History of Law group after 

A. Ham: With luck, I’ll be home by 2:00, I can pick something up 

He knew there wouldn’t be a response until the lunch break, so he tucked his phone back in his bag and resigned himself to the last 26 minutes of the lecture. His thoughts wandered again, but led nowhere worthwhile, so he spent some time on working on the homework, and then the homework for the next week’s lecture as well. He was just starting a case study for another class when the lecture- at last!- let out. He rose in a relieved stretch, and packed his belongings quickly. The sooner he made it to the city library to meet with his teammates, the sooner he could escape their company and go home, or shopping, or something else equally productive. 

He was the first one to the library, but the others weren’t too far behind. They were all eager to be somewhere else, so dissention was at a minimum, and their next steps for the project were laid out with unprecedented efficiency. Free at last, Hamilton spurned the bus in favor of walking back home. It wasn’t far, and now that the sun was shining brightly, it was warm enough- although Hamilton wouldn’t have called it warm so much as less cold. He stopped in the apartment only long enough to drop off his school things, ascertain whether or not they were in need of any sundry household items, and pour the rest of the morning’s coffee into a thermos. He sugared it liberally and swept back outside, locking the door carefully behind him. 

A stop at the drugstore was sufficient to take care of the practical necessities on his list- dish soap, batteries, and better pens- by three o’clock, which left him at least an hour to buy treats, pick up dinner, and head for home. He paid patronage to Laurens’ favorite bakery, for cannoli, his own favorite fro-yo shop, and the new Mediterranean restaurant for dinner, all in quick succession. On a whim, he bought flowers from a cart on the street- “Fresh! First of the Spring!”- and then he had too many parcels to walk home in a timely manner, so he took the bus. Laurens wasn’t home yet when he arrived, which gave him time to get the flowers situated on the table, and start his assigned task for the History of Law project. 

Laurens came home in high spirits. As he came through the door, he seemed to pull a bit of the springtime in with him, and the apartment brightened, replenished with the gaiety that was missing during the empty daytime hours. Hamilton rose to greet him, buoyed up by Laurens’ happiness. 

“Welcome home!” He stood on the tips of his toes to kiss Laurens lightly. “You might be the liveliest person I’ve seen all day.” 

“Hello, love! Working world a bit dreary?” He moved out of the doorway, depositing his bag on the floor by the coat hooks and sprawling across the couch. 

“It is a Monday, I suppose the businesspeople can’t be blamed. How was your day?” 

Laurens described the progress his students were making on the performances for the late-spring show, lingering in his telling on students who made some particularly impressive improvement. Hamilton sat on the arm of the couch and listened, basking contently in the rightness of their little world. Laurens asked him about his day, in turn, and Hamilton gave a brief summary of the highlights, skipping most of the bits about school. He brought out the cannoli, to Laurens’ delight, and shared his impression of the new restaurant. Laurens hastened off to shower quickly, so that they could eat, while Hamilton reheated the food and stole a few more spare moments to work on History of Law. 

The rest of the evening was a quiet affair. The food was not the best Mediterranean, but it was cheap and close and good enough, so Hamilton counted it as a victory. The cannoli was excellent, as always, sweet but not cloyingly so. After they’d eaten, Laurens stretched out on the floor with Hamilton’s copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls, which he was rereading, while Hamilton himself sat on the couch and folded laundry. After a busy day, the serenity of these evenings at home was a sacred thing. Tonight, it carried them on into the nighttime and they went to bed early. 

Lafayette’s week passed in a blur of painting. He did not normally like to do more than one painting at a time, but after Laurens’ he’d picked up three more commissions, and had to work three of the four all at once to keep up. Every morning, he woke and made coffee, and started painting by seven thirty, and often he’d work until two or three in the afternoon. On Monday, he’d forgotten to take a break to eat, and so his first meal of the day was not until two thirty. Consequently, he spent much of Monday feeling unwell, and made an effort to remember to eat after that. 

By Friday, he felt that he’d made enough progress to be able to stop at noon and take a much-needed trip to the grocery store to replenish the rapidly dwindling pantry. He did a quick but thorough house-cleaning after he returned, and by the time he was finished the tiny apartment at last looked like a place where someone might actually want to spend their time. Inspired by that thought, he decided to invite Laurens and Alexander over for dinner on Saturday, the following night. He was only able to reach Laurens’ voicemail when he tried calling. Lafayette tried Alex next, who picked up after two rings. 

“Lafayette?” There was the sound of voices in the background. 

“Are you at dinner? I didn’t intend to interrupt you, I can call you back if it’s inconvenient.” 

“No, no, don’t worry about it- we’re on the bus. What’s up?” 

“I’ve been thinking about having some people over here for dinner tomorrow night, would you and Laurens be available to attend, if you cared to?” 

“Hang on, let me ask-” The background noise was suddenly muffled, and Lafayette waited patiently while the other two consulted. “We’d love to come! Laurens wants to know what you’d like us to bring.” 

Shit, he thought, I didn’t think this far ahead. “Wine? That’d be a help.” 

“Red or white?” 

Guessing time, thought Lafayette, and I suppose this’ll narrow down what I can cook. “White,” he said, voice betraying none of his momentary turmoil. “Thank you!” 

“Not a problem! Thank you for the invitation,” Alexander said. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

“Until then,” said Lafayette, hanging up and almost immediately tracking down some paper- the back of his receipt from the grocery store- and a pen to make another shopping list. He was surprised by the extent of his fondness for Alexander, who he had met, after all, only once in person. Laurens had been right, Lafayette supposed, when he’d remarked on how quickly Alex endeared himself to the people he met. Although, clearly it didn’t work for everyone, as there was the man that Alex had been fighting with at the party where Laurens had met him. Perhaps, he thought, Alex merely inspired passionate feelings and it was up to the individual to make them positive or negative. Realizing he was getting nowhere practical, he dismissed the train of thought in favor of marshalling his ideas about dinner and translating them into a decently comprehensive list. He decided on fish and some sort of improvised pear salad for dinner. The ingredients were manageably inexpensive, especially since Laurens and Alexander were going to be supplying the wine. 

The grocer did not disappoint with her selection of fishes, and although the pears were not yet fully ripened, Lafayette was optimistic that they would work out nicely. 

Saturday dawned as the warmest day of the spring so far, and the city embraced the weather to its fullest. The streets bustled with pedestrians, and the air smelled cleaner, livelier. Uncharacteristically, Laurens spent most of his time in the studio anticipating the time when he could leave and be outdoors. He was excited for Lafayette’s dinner, as well, and when Alexander visited at lunchtime they talked mostly of the event and Lafayette himself. They hadn’t yet gotten around to comparing notes on their impressions of him, although it’d been almost a week since Alex had met him. As it turned out, he had been similarly charmed by his first meeting with Lafayette, which was a relief for Laurens, as it meant almost a guarantee of more visits all together in the future. They both agreed that there must be some story behind why he was so clandestine about his life, although Alex was even more mystified on this count than Laurens, as he did not know Lafayette’s actual profession. 

The rest of the afternoon passed relatively quickly, and Laurens left the studio in even higher spirits than normal. Only the need to get home in time to get ready for the dinner kept him from walking all the way- a distance of some three miles, so certainly doable, but not for one so easily distracted on a day where time was of the essence. The bus, to him, was stifling, crowded with tourists- Good God, he thought, how did they know to be here already? It didn’t get warm until today!- and the other unfortunate folk who worked Saturdays. When he came into the apartment, it took an enormous effort from Alexander to keep him from opening up every window immediately. Laurens had to admit, the argument that although it was warmer, it was not quite comfortable living temperature yet, was remarkably valid. Sixty-two degrees was lovely for the street, but not quite warm enough for sleeping. 

“And,” Alex continued, “we’re leaving in 45 minutes anyway, so all it would do is leave everything smelling like city, and we’d have to lock all the windows back up before we leave.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Laurens sighed, dramatically. “I shall just have to wither here, in confinement, alas!” 

“Oh, yes, woe upon you, et cetera, et cetera,” Alex said, laughing. He kissed Laurens, and gave him a good-natured shove towards the bathroom. “Go get cleaned up! It’s four thirty now, Lafayette texted and said he’d be ready by five. I figured we’d give him a margin of error just in case, but if you’re ready in time to be there at five I won’t stall.” 

Laurens reemerged twenty minutes later, dressed rather nicer than Alex was, which necessitated another few minutes for Alex to change. He had dressed thinking in the vein of “getting together with friends”, and clearly Laurens had taken the “dinner party” portion of the invitation much more thoroughly to heart. Despite mourning the loss of an opportunity to wear jeans, Alex enjoyed the excuse to dress well for an event that he would, hopefully, enjoy, rather than a school event. All at last being ready, Laurens pulled the wine out of the fridge and they were off, pulled back onto the streets. The sky was darkening rapidly already, and the Saturday night crowds, even in an neighborhood low on popular nightclubs, were making an appearance. Before waiting for the bus, Alex insisted on finding the flower vendor he had visited previously. The last blooms left were periwinkles. They were delightful, and so cheap due to the late hour that Alex tipped the vendor almost half again as much as the flowers were worth, to thank her for still being open. 

Errand achieved, they waited only a few moments before boarding the bus and riding the surprisingly short distance to Lafayette’s apartment. Alex was excited to find out what the man’s home looked like, whether it carried obvious marks of his influence or if it was merely a place where he kept his things while his spirit dwelt elsewhere. The building was non-descript brick, and although the street was quiet, shouting could be heard coming from one of the ground-floor windows. Determinedly unfazed, Alex led the way through the entrance to the building and all the way up a cement stairwell to the third floor. Lafayette had said that he was in apartment 34. Alex knocked firmly, and then stood back next to Laurens. He’d scarcely stopped moving when Lafayette came to the door, visibly excited. 

“Alexander! Monsieur Laurens! Welcome, my friends,” he said, stepping back into the apartment and holding the door for them to enter. Music was coming from somewhere within, and the air wafting out smelled enticingly of cooking. 

As the door shut behind Laurens and Lafayette moved back towards the stove, Alex got an unobstructed look at the inside of the room. It was decently clean and well-kept, but tiny, one square room and what must have been a bathroom. An easel, a table with two mismatched chairs and a barstool, a couch which clearly was serving as Lafayette’s bed, a stove and tiny dorm fridge- that was everything. The couch looked as if it might have been picked up from next to a dumpster after college seniors moved out. The windows were curtainless, the floor done in slightly yellowed linoleum. In a sudden moment of clarity, Alex was certain he knew why Lafayette had danced around talking about anything except for his college years. His heart panged with empathy, and an irrational desire to find whoever thought it was okay for his friend to live like this. He shot Laurens a distressed glance, and saw similar emotions playing out across his face. Laurens shook his head almost imperceptibly, and schooled his features back into genuine excitement. Alex did the same, and relieved him of the flowers, setting them on the table. 

Lafayette was, or at least was pretending to be, unconcerned about the situation. He examined the flowers delightedly, and perched on the barstool next to the table. “The fish is in the oven, I’m running behind schedule slightly.” 

“No worries,” Laurens said, “it’s still early for a Saturday.” He and Alex sat at the other two chairs. 

Lafayette pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. “Now, as you are both cultured individuals, I should not even have to ask,” he said, layering on foppishness betrayed only by the laughing shine in his eyes, “but have you been inoculated into the world of Euchre?” 

Alex chimed in. “My grandmother taught me Euchre! I haven’t found anyone to play it with in forever, though, I keep teaching him-” he elbowed Laurens- “but he always forgets.” 

Thus began what could only be classified as a merry romp, figuratively, through re-teaching Laurens Euchre. They started by having Alex team up with him against Lafayette, which went relatively well, and then Laurens and Lafayette played against Alex, and by that point Laurens was confident enough to play on his own. After a brief and panicked pause to see to the fish, which they had all nearly forgotten- it was, fortunately, unburned, and needed just a bit more time- they played one more game as individuals. Laurens was beaten soundly and quickly, but he took it in good humor. The fish was done by then, and Lafayette served it and the salad proudly, along with a loaf of sourdough. For the next few minutes, the conversation could scarcely go more than two sentences without an interjected comment on the superb quality of the meal. Lafayette, for all his boldness, was nearly blushing by the end of it, and he deftly turned the conversation to asking after his guests’ respective days. Laurens talked a bit about the studio, which sparked a rapid dialogue between him and Lafayette, who had apparently learned enough about classical ballet in college to ask questions which were beyond what Alex could follow. He sat quite happily, content to listen to the discussion wash over him and eat a good meal and drink the wine. Even though the door was closed, he could feel that it was warmer outside, and he looked forward to having true spring at last. 

The after-dinner conversation meandered its way through a range of different topics, stories from each of their pasts emerging and commingling even as hopes and fears about the future were confessed. They talked candidly about where they all wished to go with their lives and where they knew they might end up, if events did not go according to the plan. Stories which carried evident pain along with them were not lingered upon for long, which left Alex’s ultimate perception of the conversation as an experience which was weighty and began to shed light upon some parts of Lafayette’s life without it being an unhappy way to end the night. 

Alex and Laurens headed home after ten thirty, laden with leftovers and good cheer. As soon as they were out of the building, Alex thought of Lafayette lingering alone in the tiny apartment, and again he felt such deep sympathy for the man that his heart ached with a physical pain. Laurens looked uncharacteristically unhappy, as well, and he reached out for Alex’s hand. 

“What can we do for him?” He asked, softly, voice melancholy. “He wouldn’t accept help, he’s too proud, but we can’t do nothing- I mean, did you see-” 

“The couch?” Alex said. “I know. And there he was buying fish and all the other things for dinner and practically sleeping on the ground and I felt awful, but what were we going to do? He invited us, after all.” 

Laurens nodded in unhappy agreement, and a few moments of frustrated silence fell. “Well,” he said at last, “the least we can do is return his kindness, have him over for dinner sometime soon or take him out for drinks.” 

“Absolutely- I mean, I’d want to anyway, obviously, but he probably doesn’t indulge in that kind of thing on his own.” He’d been certain from the time they responded to Lafayette’s invitation that they’d be extending an invitation of their own as soon after as it was socially acceptable to do so, but with this new information, treating him to dinner out at a decent restaurant or doing something comparable became, for Alex, almost necessary to fulfill his conscience. 

“Maybe we can see next weekend about going out? If the weather holds, we might be able to actually do something outside, that’d be nice.” 

The rest of the way home, Alex and Laurens swapped ideas for things they could do, along with Lafayette, to take advantage of the newly emerging spring weather. The planning helped, just slightly, to soothe Alex’s sense of outrage at the injustice of it all. It was enough, for the time being, when they could do nothing else. 

Alex could tell that Laurens was still unsettled, though, as the night wound down and they got ready to go to bed. He felt it, too, deep in his chest, the same sick sadness he used to feel when he was a kid, when he would learn suddenly, in fits and starts, that his world was not as pristine as he perceived it to be. His earliest memory of the feeling was near Christmas time when he was six, when his mother took him to help make sandwiches at a soup kitchen. He’d stayed silent the entire time, unwrapping slices of American cheese and passing them to his mother- there was a photo of him, taken by a reporter from a tiny neighborhood newspaper, out there somewhere, a tiny, wide-eyed child in a sweater, looking serious and almost severe- but when they returned home he pestered her with questions about why the people had to come and get sandwiches, why they weren’t paying for them, why some of them had holes in their clothes. 

She explained that they didn’t have enough money for food or clothes, and that some of them didn’t have houses, and that prompted another volley of inquiries. He’d had trouble sleeping that night, and many nights after, as he matured and learned lesson after lesson about how harsh the world could be. In a small way, he had learned it again tonight, although he knew, of course, that people everywhere were dealing with poverty. He knew, too, that compared to some, Lafayette’s situation was not at all dire, but the thought that a friend was suffering made it much more real. 

He was musing over this still when he got into bed. He and Laurens had been unusually quiet since they had gotten off the bus, and they stayed that way, too deeply absorbed in thought. Alex felt suddenly very small, like when he had, upon occasion, slept in his mother’s bed after a nightmare. The mattress dipped slightly as Laurens slipped under the quilt on the other side of the bed, and Alex turned over to face him. He was only mildly surprised when Laurens shifted closer, nestling his face against Alex’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his waist. They hadn’t fallen asleep cuddling too many times since the first months of dating, because although it was exciting, they’d both found that sleeping too close ended up being sweaty and uncomfortable. Tonight, though, Alex appreciated it, and he fell asleep brushing his thumb in comforting strokes across Laurens’ shoulder blade. 

When Lafayette woke on Sunday, it was to the ambient sound of rain pattering endlessly against the walls. Although for the people on the street- churchgoers, tourists, the unlucky ones who were working- the rain meant another extra inconvenience to handle along with the rest of their lives, Lafayette found it soothing. He had no memory of specific dreams, but knew he’d slept unrestfully. Staying in bed for a while longer, the day of work to do notwithstanding, suddenly occurred to him as a much better idea than getting up and being responsible- and cold. He hoped it was only the rain, but the previous day’s warmth had left as fast as it arrived, and the apartment was uncomfortable chilly; not the bitter, freeze the water in the taps cold that it could be in winter, not nearly that bad, but enough to make him wish for a hot drink or, while he was wishing anyway, a home with a real heater. 

Wishing and hoping put aside for practical matters, he wrapped up tighter in the blanket and gave himself ten minutes to sit nestled into the corner of the couch and listen to the rain. So that the time wasn’t entirely wasted, he made a mental list of the things he had to get done that day- work on the three paintings, clean the kitchen, or at least the corner he counted as the kitchen, and go to the library so that he could do his taxes. Absently, he wondered if he might see Alexander there, but he dismissed the notion as unlikely. 

He worked on the paintings first, even before he made coffee or ate. The portrait of Alex was very close to being finished, and the other two were not far behind. It had been a very productive week, and Lafayette was pleased with himself, but there wasn’t time to take a break yet. He hoped to finish Alex’s portrait by Tuesday, and the other two- one of an elderly woman in a garden, wheelchair bound but radiant with happiness, and the second of a young father holding his newborn infant, awestruck at the miracle of the living person in his arms- by the next week. These three portraits, each a strong contender for his favorite commission ever, were incredible to work on all together. They reminded him why he loved his job so much, irregular pay and constant stress aside. He was already dreading sending the other two away, his least favorite part of the job whether he loved the painting or not. At least Alex and Laurens had become regular features of his life, so that he could not only guarantee that the portrait arrived to them safely, but also- and this was the bit he was most excited for- find out how Alex reacted to the gift, whether or not he liked it. That was one part of the process which he was never privy to. Typically, after he gave or sent the painting to the commissioner, his involvement was over. Other than the occasional email, he’d never kept contact with a client after the portrait was finished. 

It grieved him sometimes, that after all his work he could never know whether or not it really mattered, but he tried not to spend too much of his time thinking about it. It was Sunday, he was making good progress, the rain was clearing up, and he was ready to be productive. This mindset carried him through another two hours of painting- making the day’s output break three uninterrupted hours, which must have been some kind of record- and then he couldn’t delay eating any longer so he put some food out in case the cat came around and broke his fast on leftovers from the previous night’s dinner. He took a quick shower after eating, and cleaned up the kitchen. He took his time on that task, changing the music three times and making sure the counters were spotless. It was not the cleanliness of the kitchen he was prioritizing, rather, he simply wished to delay doing the taxes. Despite his best efforts, the kitchen could eventually get no cleaner, and so, resignedly, he took a bulging envelope out of a box stowed under the couch and set off, making sure the door was locked behind him. The envelope contained the records of every painting he’d sold in the past year, along with all the other various documents needed for filing taxes. 

It was no longer raining by the time he got off the bus at the library, but the sidewalks were mired in puddles and car tires hissed wetly on the road. Careful not to soak his shoes, he picked his way, hopping and stepping lightly, over to the library steps, and headed inside. 

The taxes were a routine affair. He did find the copious amounts of children in the library to be unusual, until he remembered that it was Sunday. No other mysteries presented themselves. 

As he was finishing, his phone chirped quietly in his pocket. Surprised, he marked his spot on the screen with his finger and glanced at who sent the message. It was from Laurens, and Lafayette hastened to finish the taxes up before reading it.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so-  
> Where this is heading is quite likely pretty obvious to anyone who's ever read established-relationship-to-friendship-to-polyamory. I sat here for about twenty minutes and tried to remember details, but because I wrote this without taking any kind of notes about the plot (in fact, this may have been the project that forced me to start actually pretending to be a writer), I came up pretty short. To the best of my memory: The painting is stunning, Alex loves it, they all start spending tons of time together, etc. I believe I had it that Laurens brings up the "hey I'm pretty into Lafayette we should see if he wants to make this weird flirting thing kind of official" conversation with Alex, who balks initially but reconsiders, and Lafayette is pining a bit the whole time but is very determined to be the best third wheel in the world. Imagine his surprise when he's invited over for dinner and presented with the "let's make this official"!  
> You can tell the rest from there. Thanks for the read, I appreciate it.


End file.
